


Young & Wild

by TheBrideOfTheWind



Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Grumpy Old Men, Humor, M/M, Old Married Couple, Roadtrip, canonverse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-09
Updated: 2017-07-09
Packaged: 2018-11-29 03:59:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,911
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11432697
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheBrideOfTheWind/pseuds/TheBrideOfTheWind
Summary: After spending most of their life together in a small farm house, Bellamy and Murphy decide to go on a road trip to see the sea one more time.





	Young & Wild

**Author's Note:**

  * For [J](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=J).



Home isn't the place you were born. The Ark has never felt like home to any of them. Arkadia has never felt like home. Losing it didn't mean much. It didn't hurt.

After Praimfaya, after another time in space, after everything that happened, they had to start new. They rose from the ashes, and they built their future from the ashes. Somewhere along the way, they learnt that sometimes two broken pieces can make a whole again. They built a house together, a home. For the first time in their life, they belonged somewhere. 

It isn’t in the best shape anymore, the paint peeling in several places, the windows and doors old and unsealed, letting the cold in more and more. The floorboards creak under their heavier steps, and there's a leak in the roof with a bucket in place to contain the rain falling through it. But it’s theirs, and they’ve made it theirs. 

Most of the house is filled with old furniture that Bellamy has restored carefully, complemented with a few selected, newer items. They didn't want anything to remind them of the Ark, ALIE's lab or any bunker, so there's no white or dark wall in the house. Murphy picked out some bright curtains which look tatty and yellowed now, but none of them cares enough to buy new ones or to take them down and wash them. And they don't like other people in their house.

Raven stops by from time to time, though she and Monty are still occupied with their engineering company. Emori insists on coming over whenever she's around, never getting tired of reminding Murphy how smitten he looked every time he told her about Bellamy or talked to him. Her stays usually end with a brightly blushing Murphy, a happy Bellamy, and a very smug Emori. Clarke pays them some visits, too, when she’s not travelling from country to country with Madi to whatever humanitarian project they work with at the moment, still trying to save everyone. But that's it. 

They have little memories of their loved ones that didn’t make it through Praimfaya or the aftermath scattered all over their property.

Beautiful flowers that attract beautiful butterflies for Octavia. They don't glow, but it's been a long time since they've seen a luminous butterfly. For a while, there had been no butterflies at all.

Chickens for Bryan and Miller, though by now they only have three of them left. They’re usually roaming around on the meadows, tending to appear and disappear in the most unexpected places.

A little pond with goldfish for Luna which is overpopulated with frogs, causing them many sleepless nights when they were younger. Nowadays, their hearing loss is advantageous in the sense that it makes the constant croaking at least bearable.

And Jobi nuts for Jasper. Bellamy is still not a hundred percent sure if Murphy doesn't use them to brew hallucinogenic tea, because every time he does, it leaves them suspiciously euphoric.

The little white farmhouse glows in the morning sun, the surrounding meadows wet with dew, glittering in the soft light. It’s calm and peaceful. The place awakens when Murphy gets up and stomps into the kitchen to make them their usual breakfast – eggs on toast and freshly squeezed orange juice – or at least tries to.

“BELLAMY BLAKE!” resounds through the house, startling Bellamy and causing him to sit bolt upright in their bed. He rubs his still slumberous eyes and waits, bracing himself for the storm that's about to break lose. Murphy calling him his full name normally meant only one thing: he did something terribly, terribly wrong.

“Where are the eggs? Don't tell me you didn't buy eggs, Bellamy! And no oranges, too? I didn’t survive a nuclear catastrophe for this!”

By the time he reaches the scene, all of the drawers and cabinet doors are open, and Murphy stands there in his candy-striped pyjama, fuming and with his hands on his hips, watching him shuffle into the kitchen with a giant frown on his face.

“I may have forgotten to buy some...” he admits, crestfallen.

“But I told you to!”

“This doesn't change the fact that I didn't. Can't we just eat something else? Just this one time? I'll buy new eggs and oranges later,” he begs, though he's sure that in all likelihood even begging and his infamous puppy dog eyes won't help his case this time. For all of his adaptability and liberalness, Murphy’s surprisingly traditional and close-minded regarding food.

“Can't we just eat something else?” Murphy mimics him. “Can't we just eat something else? Next thing you'll suggest is that we leave the house and go on some crazy road trip like in all those cheesy movies you love to watch.”

“I don't –,” he starts, then pauses, a wild idea forming in his mind. “We could go on a road trip together, though. We have never been to the seaside. 

“And I want to see the sea one more time.”

“Have you seen the sea ever?”

“No. Have you?”

“Murphy, we’ve been living on this farm for fifty years.”

“Do I know everything you’ve done before we met?”

“I was born on the Ark. Same as you.”

“Fair point. But I demand a colourful cocktail with a little umbrella when we’re at the seaside,” Murphy says, already negotiating terms and conditions. 

“OK. I think I can handle that.”

 

They pack their necessary “equipment” together faster than expected, and with Murphy taking one last longing look at the two rocking chairs on their porch, they leave for their great adventure. 

On the way, it dawns on them that they indeed have been to the beach before, but not exactly for fun or leisure activities. ALIE's island and everything connected with it isn't something Murphy is too fond of, so it comes as no surprise they didn't think about it.

By the time the sun begins to set, they finally arrive at the coast, taking a more than questionable dirt road to a small and empty sand beach. The bay is enclosed by massive cliffs, the waves rolling ashore lazily, the screams of seabirds piercing through the silence. 

“Looks homely,” Murphy scoffs, because of course it's not their porch, and he hates leaving the house.

“Stop being such a grumpy old man all the time,” Bellamy coughs, making a face at him.

“I'm not old. And I'm not grumpy,” Murphy replies, although he's already eyeing his surroundings with a disgruntled look on his face.

“Whatever,” Bellamy says while he sets up the two folding chairs they brought with them.

“So where is the colourful cocktail with the little umbrella, you promised me?” Murphy asks him mockingly, as if he's just setting himself for disappointment. 

He ignores him and goes back to the trunk, rummaging around, then emerges with a single can in his hand.

“That doesn't look like a cocktail,” Murphy gripes, while the can opens with a low hiss and Bellamy puts a pink umbrella and a straw in it. He bought the can at the last service station and found the decoration in one of the cupboards. They still fancy a cocktail once in a while. Something sweet for Murphy and something sour for him.

“It's a sex on the beach. Or at least it claims to be one.”

“How convenient that we're on a beach now, hm? I have to admit, I still got the moves, but I'm lazy,” Murphy says, wiggling his butt and raising his eyebrows in a suggestive manner.

“Shut up, Murphy,” Bellamy mumbles, but he can’t help but smile as Murphy takes a long sip, then disposes of his socks and waddles into the water, letting out a high-pitched screech when the cold hits his bare feet.

It doesn’t take long, and he plods back and plumps down into the free seat with a loud sigh. The sighing continues a few minutes. It takes another minute till he speaks up.

“Bell?” he coos. “Could you please help me to put my socks back on?”

“You can do that by yourself,” he grunts in response, crossing his arms to emphasize his determination to not fall for his trick this time.

“Come on Bellamy, help me, please. You know my arthritis…”

“You don’t have arthritis?! Your bones are just old.”

“Excuse me, Bellamy, those bones survived radiation.”

“But you’re younger than me.”

“You were always more agile. And don't forget my asthma,” Murphy whines with the most pained and pitiful expression he can muster. He even manages to make his voice crack and Bellamy stands in awe of his powerful performance.

“Fine, I’ll do it. But only if you stop whining,” he gives in. 

“I never whine,” Murphy claims shamelessly.

“Then put your socks on yourself.”

“Bell,” Murphy whines again. “Pleeeease.” And he ultimately caves in, knowing too well this could be going on for a while. And when he puts on his charm, it's incredibly hard to say no to him.

“Thank you, love,” Murphy flutes, and grins, visibly pleased with himself, then grabs his cocktail from the ground and drinks the rest of it in one gulp. Of course, he does.

“Sometimes, I think about when we were younger. Before Praimfaya,” he tells him with a dreamy look. 

Bellamy hums approvingly.

“Man, you were the hottest guy on earth. That Roan guy was hot, too, but let’s be honest he had nothing on you.” He stares into the distance, lost in thought, while Bellamy blushes.

“For all I know you might have been the hottest guy in space, too, but unfortunately I didn’t know you back then. And I would have remembered you, believe me. Couldn’t take my eyes off you since the day I met you –” 

“That might be one of the sweetest things you’ve ever said to me.”

“– still can’t. Though your hair is greyer. Your face is more wrinkled. And I can't remember the last time you’ve been to the gym...”

“I was wondering how long it would take for you to ruin that compliment.”

“But you know what? – It doesn't matter,” Murphy rescues himself smoothly. “It doesn't change how I feel about you,” he adds, and Bellamy gives a quiet smile. It's as sentimental as Murphy gets, but his heart loops in his chest, nonetheless. 

“Thank you. It's not that you haven't aged. At all.”

“I'm still light as a feather. Fast as lightning. Like a good wine, I don't age, I mature.”

“Sure,” Bellamy stifles a laugh. He got older and wiser, yet maturity still isn't Murphy's strongest suit. But he's always appreciated his lightness concerning some of the things that weighed heavier on him and vice versa. It's what makes them a good team.

It’s not gasoline pulsing in his veins anymore, like when they were younger. It’s not sparks flying, igniting a wildfire whenever they touch or look at each other. It’s gentler now, a constant, quiet humming, ubiquitous and comforting, the whiff of Murphy’s breath near him and the thrumming of his heartbeat being the last thing he hears before he goes to sleep.

Although they didn't need to, they married ten years ago in a little ceremony with their closest friends, with Murphy-I-don't-believe-in-marriage scoffing and frowning through it in an attempt to hide that he was wiping tears from his face, as well. It had been lovely, and he was glad they did it. The photograph of them smiling brightly in their matching blue wedding suits – both holding a little bouquet of pastel peonies – has a place of honour on their photo wall. He still doesn't know what sorcery Raven had used to persuade Murphy into buying and wearing a suit, and every time he asks her, she just gives him a cryptic smile without revealing anything. He’s stopped asking her by now. 

 

They sit next to each other on the beach, bundled up in their woollen blankets, with the sound of the ocean lulling them into sleep, their pinkies touching slightly.

When the rising sun kisses his cheek, Bellamy wakes up, opening his sleep-crusted eyes slowly. Everything he does is slow these days. 

“Murph,” he yells, trying to drown out his snoring. “MURPHYYY!” he yells even louder, poking him with his index finger. He doesn't react, and for a fleeting moment, Bellamy's afraid he won't wake up. 

It's one of Murphy's greatest fear that Bellamy dies before him. From time to time, he wakes up in the middle of the night when Murphy pokes him in his chest with his pointy fingers to check if he's still alive. He gets the point now.

“Hmm?” Murphy finally mumbles, voice still dozy. He stretches a little bit in his seat, his joints creaking reluctantly. Usually, it's one of his favourite daytime pleasures to annoy him by cracking his knuckles. 

“I think I can’t get up.”

“What?”

“I think I can’t get up from this chair. It’s too low.”

“You must be kidding me.”

“I’m not.”

“OK,” Murphy clamours while he heaves himself out of his own chair – it takes three attempts – then pulls Bellamy out of his, both of them nearly landing on their arse. Which could have been funny and terrible, like two bugs lying helplessly on their back, not able to get up again.

“What would you do without me, though?” Murphy teases, always taking every chance he gets to make fun of him. “Remember when I saved you on that cliff? Or that time in Polis? What would you eat if I wasn't there to cook you delicious food?”

“I would be nothing without you.”

“Glad, that we're on the same page there.”

They stand next to each other for a while, hand in hand, watching the sunrise. It's eerily quiet and tranquil, even though the sea is wild and rough, the waves crashing against the cliffs with brute force, the spray sprinkling their faces with salt and wetness. 

“I miss my rocking chair,” Bellamy says, suddenly. “And the beach is colder than I thought.”

“I miss mine, too.” 

“It was your idea to leave the house.”

“It was your idea.” 

“No, it was yours,” Murphy insists.

“Sometimes I can’t tell if you’re really becoming senile or if you just want me to think that.”

“Guess you'll never know.”

“That’s exactly the thing a senile person would say…”

“You’re way older than I am, so if someone’s becoming senile, it’s you! And you were the one that burned the eggs the other day!” Murphy shouts at him. A seagull close to them looks at them warily, then opens its wings and flies towards the raging sea with an angry shriek.

“Only because you distracted me!” He shouts back. Another flock of birds dashes away in a flap of wings and feathers.

“Who cares. You burned them. I never burned anything!”

“Well…”

“I never burnt anything by coincidence.”

“Sounds closer to the truth.”

“So can I drive?” Murphy asks, hope in his voice.

“No. The last time you “drove” I had to pick you up at the police station and bail you out for insulting a police officer and providing false identification.”

“I didn’t –”

“I’ll drive.” 

It’s not just Murphy's inability to follow any rules that lets Bellamy usually take the driver's seat, but also the fact that his eyesight declines from month to month and he's still too vain or too proud to wear glasses. Sometimes he catches him talking to rocks because he thinks it's one of the chickens, but he never calls him out on it. Murphy has never been someone you would argue with over glasses or rocks mistaken for chickens. If he has learnt something in the last fifty years, it was that Murphy wasn't someone you argue with about anything. 

“Fiiine, Mr. Righteous. I just asked the man to take a closer look. If that’s an insult, go on.”

“You asked him – and I quote – ‘are you frigging blind’? Then you told him your name was ‘Monty Green’.”

“You weren’t even there,” Murphy grumbles, but in the end, he settles for the passenger seat without further protest. Although it’s not the first and probably not the last time they'll have this discussion.

 

It’s taking them longer on their way back than on their way there, with Murphy either sleeping and snoring loudly, or singing along to whatever song is playing on the radio, even if he doesn’t know the lyrics. Or, especially if he doesn’t know them.

Their small house glimmers in the sinking sun when they finally arrive in the evening, their porch and the two lonely rocking chairs on it bathed in the red and orange glow.

They leave everything but their blankets back in the car, both falling into their chair with a pleased noise, throwing the warm blankets over their legs to keep themselves warm.

“No place like home, hmm?” Murphy says, a soft smile playing on his lips.

“No place like home,” he confirms, though he doesn’t look at the house or the garden but the old man beside him.

 _Home is wherever you are_ , he thinks, but doesn’t dare to say it out loud. Again, Murphy’s never been someone for sappiness or sentimentality. But when he looks back at him, ocean eyes wrinkly, yet still bright and sincere, he knows that some things don’t need to be said out loud, some things don't need to be shouted from the rooftops for everyone to hear to make them true.

Some things you just know.

**Author's Note:**

> I live for grumpy old Murphy, but this is the corniest thing I've ever written...Hope it's not too much dialogue, I just wanted to include lots of bickering and went with it...Thanks for reading anyway!


End file.
